Flying Lessons
by whatthefoucault
Summary: Boosh meets Barley: it's like the Flintstones Meet the Jetsons, only more contrived!  Howard and Vince and Dan and Jones go to New York to seek their fortunes.  Mayhem ensues.  Will eventually be twelve chapters; rating will go up as things get smuttier.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I don't own any of these characters, or the shows they come from. I own a couple of ponchos. For what it's worth. They make me happy.

**A/N**: At long last, the adventure continues. This series follows the Boosh story "The World Just Keeps on Ending," also by me, and "The Redeeming Qualities of Bad Techno," also also by me. If you're into Boosh but you haven't seen Nathan Barley, DO IT. And vice versa.

Dan Ashcroft was still coming down from the buzz. It was a heady mixture of the kind of glow that normally followed after he'd come in, on, or around his lover, coupled with the excitement, terror, and (though a part of his consciousness deemed this ill-considered) happiness that accompanied the knowledge that his novel – especially considering that until recently, he wasn't even sure he had it in him – would be published very, very soon.

"You remember that band we saw a few months back at the Velvet Onion?" asked Jones, laid out on his belly, propped up on his elbows, feet dangling in the air, frantically jabbing naked text messages into his phone.

"Did I do a review of that one?" Dan cocked an eyebrow at Jones.

"Yeah, you know, those two blokes?" offered Jones.

"Did they do that space madrigal number?" asked Dan, squinting, trying to remember.

"Yeah, that's them," smiled Jones. "Anyway, I ran into one of them at my gig last week, and we've been texting about working on a side project. They seem like really nice blokes, I think you'll like them."

Dan just made a face that was something between a sneer and a look of incredulous discomfort, shaking his head.

"Don't be so judgmental, Dan. Just because they're in a band doesn't mean they're pretentious wankers," said Jones. "Give them a chance, yeah?"

"Yeah, all right," said Dan. "So they're going to be in your side project?"

"Yeah, we're called Dancing Banana Trees and I've just booked us a gig in New York the same week as your book launch," said Jones. "It's gonna be massive!"

"You haven't even rehearsed with them yet," said Dan.

"So?" asked Jones, tossing his phone on the nightstand.

Jones was one of those somewhat mysterious individuals who always seemed to have just enough money, in spite of never actually having a real job, and Dan suspected that while the gigs he played _might _have been paying enough for him to live on, it couldn't have been enough to support them both. Dan sometimes wondered if there was some kind of inheritance Jones didn't like to talk about. Dan didn't care if there was. He still felt guilty living on essentially no income while he worked on his book, apart from the occasional freelance review, and the infinitesimal advance given to him by the publishers. Indeed, since Dan expected that the royalties from his book would equal (if he was lucky) the cost of a cup of watery tea and one of those rock hard eccles cakes they sell at seaside cafes, he rather wished the publishers would forgo the ridiculous book launch they had planned and just give him a cheque for the cost of the event. He knew Jones would continue to support his endeavours, but he felt rather terrible about the whole thing, being of such little use. At least, he consoled himself, he was for once writing what _he_ felt like.

When Dan had finally let Jones see the final draft of his book, just before sending it off to the publishers – he'd been _very_ secretive about it up until then, not letting anyone see his work, on punishment of death, despite Jones' pleadings – Jones pored through it in an afternoon. When he'd finished reading the last page, he slung off his headphones, pumped his fists in the air, ran to the sofa, and crashed down next to Dan.

"Yeah!" he shouted over the loud beats emanating from his headphones, hugging the manuscript to his chest. "Dan! It's like Saul Bellow on Cornish acid! This is bloody genius!"

Dan swelled a little with pride. He wasn't yet sure how Jones knew of Saul Bellow, though a subsequent conversation would reveal that before they'd met, Jones had done a degree in twentieth-century literature. At Cambridge. Even after five years, life with Jones was a voyage of constant discovery. Jones placed the manuscript gently on the floor and snuggled into Dan's side.

"Really?" asked Dan.

"Of course really," replied Jones, absentmindedly tracing circles over Dan's inner thigh with his thumb. Dan shifted slightly in response.

"Thanks Jones," said Dan, bringing his arm around Jones' willowy frame, resting his hand on that little curve just under his ribcage. Dan loved that little curve. "I think that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said about anything I've ever written."

"Well, I meant it," said Jones.

Dan pressed his lips gently to Jones' forehead. Jones beamed. His hand wandered further up Dan's thigh, playfully squeezing. Dan inhaled sharply at the sudden glimmer of things to come.

"Fuck, Jones," he breathed. Jones stood abruptly, marching with great determination toward his turntables. Dan bashed his head against the back of the sofa in confused frustration. Jones was madly pushing buttons and turning things and frantically searching through crates of records, ostensibly oblivious to Dan's frustrations.

"That's it!" shouted Jones, pumping his fist in time with the bleepy bloopy beats emanating from his turntables.

"Jones, what the hell are you doing?" squinted Dan.

"This bit is well sexy!" shouted Jones, pointing to his array of equipment. "But it's only three or four hours long, so hurry up and get your kit off, babe!"

Dan grinned with a combination of sudden understanding and pure, unfiltered Northern horniness. Jones was orchestrating a cacophonous soundtrack to make love by. "Right," said Dan, frantically unzipping his trousers as he made for the bedroom.

Howard Moon stood at the front door, dressed in his traveling clothes, with a small rucksack slung over his shoulder. He tapped his foot impatiently, in time with an invisible jazz beat.

"Vince!" he called. "Check-in's in an hour, we have to go!"

"Coming!" shouted Vince from upstairs.

There was a clatter, then a heavy _thunk thunk thunk_ sound, and a series of unattractive grunts and heaving noises, as Vince lugged a suitcase the size of a small elephant down the stairs behind him.

"Vince," sighed Howard, "they'll not even let you on the plane with that thing, you know. There's weight restrictions on luggage and they're very particular about these things."

"But I _need_ all this!" protested Vince. "You know how much fashions can change in a week! I can't risk being caught off-guard!"

"There'll be no chance of being caught _on_-guard either if you never make it out of Gatwick," cautioned Howard. "You should try traveling like me. All my essentials fit into this one compact unit," he said, proudly patting his rucksack.

"Yeah, well, it's dead easy for you, isn't it? You only have that one... _look_," grimaced Vince.

"And they do have shops in New York too, Vince," observed Howard.

"Shops," said Vince dreamily, his eyes drifting off into a very happy place indeed, "right."

He quickly stuffed his ticket, money, and passport into a small red leather satchel and threw it over his torso, bicycle messenger-stylie.

"Onward!" he declared, pointing in what he probably thought was the direction of New York, but was in fact a route that, had they followed it, would have led them somewhere in the vicinity of southern Botswana.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: Yeah. I don't own squat.

**A/N**: Ah! There you are, dear reader. Thanks for joining me for another installment of THE GREATEST ADVENTURE SINCE ANY 80s SITCOM EPISODE WHERE THE CAST GOES TO VEGAS.

On the train to the airport, Howard was busily leafing through his (deadly boring and no doubt largely useless, at least as far as Vince was concerned) A-Z guidebook of New York City, and noshing on the travel provisions he had picked up at the Marks and Spencer in Victoria station (a brie, basil, and tomato baguette and a packet of cheese and onion crisps). Vince had already finished his provisions (tuna and sweetcorn on white, a Mars bar, a large packet of foam shrimp, and a banana) and was now quietly refreshing his lipgloss. When he was fully satisfied with his appearance, he pulled out his passport to admire his photo – which was legendary among customs and government officials as the only flattering passport photo they had ever seen. He smiled at himself a moment, before he noticed something horribly, horribly wrong.

"Howard!" he cried out, eyes wide with horror and pointing frantically at his passport.

"What is it, little man?" asked Howard, not looking up from his reading.

"Howard, I don't think they'll let me into America," said Vince, his voice quiet with panic and fear.

"Why" asked Howard, putting away his book in an exaggetatedly perturbed manner. "You're not a convicted felon, Vince. Are you hiding citrus fruit in your baggage?"

"No, it's worse," said Vince. "There's something wrong with my passport."

Vince handed the doubtful object to Howard, who examined it carefully. He could find no errors or mistakes within.

"What exactly am I meant to be looking for?" asked Howard.

"They've got the date wrong," replied Vince. "They're going to arrest me for being a secret agent, aren't they? That's clearly not my birthdate!"

"Yes it is," said Howard.

"But the year's all wrong, Howard," protested Vince. "I mean, I'm only 21."

"Vince," sighed Howard, "you're the same age as me."

Vince's eyes widened further in shock.

"But you're, what, like 60?" he cried.

"I'm 34," corrected Howard. "Didn't you begin to become a little suspicious when your birthday cards this year read 'Happy 14th annual 21st birthday, Vince'?"

Vince blushed. "To be honest, I usually skip them and go straight to the presents. You know I'm not a big reader," he sniffled.

"Vince, for God's sake," sighed Howard.

"But I'm the Sunshine Kid! Sunshine Middle-Aged Man's not exactly got the same ring, does it?" lamented Vince.

"Don't be ridiculous, you silly bitch! We're in the prime of life, Little Man," said Howard. "You're young, you're healthy, and you're bloody gorgeous. A little number on your passport is nothing to be concerned about!"

"So you at least still think I'm gorgeous, even though I'm all old?" asked Vince.

"I think I've made that abundantly clear," replied Howard, smiling fondly at his distressed, but somewhat calmer, companion.

"I love you, you massive gayist," whispered Vince, leaning across his seat to kiss Howard softly on the cheek. Howard blushed like 357039890.6 punnets of ripe summer strawberries. "Now, who do I talk to in the government about having my passport corrected, do you think?"

Jones sat restlessly in the airplane seat, fidgeting with his seatbelt as he waited for the airplane to stop circling round and park itself at the gate. The flight felt far too long, and he had been much too wired for sleep. The inflight movies were atrocious, as always, and the pasta they served for dinner was rubbery. The vegetarian meal was the regular meal, minus the chicken. La dee da. He looked over at Dan, who sat quietly beside him, watching the scenery go round and round out the window. Something about watching Dan watch the scenery calmed him, made his heart swell up and feel all squishy, like diving into the crowd at an underground club populated exclusively with dancing marshmallows. Dan brought that out in him for some reason, the need to nurture, for what it was worth.

"You ever thought about us having a kid, Dan?" asked Jones, as their airplane finally touched tarmac in New York.

"No," said Dan, with an earnest matter-of-factness (or tactlessness, even) that signified the end of the conversation. Jones tucked the suggestion away in the back pocket of his mind. He would ask again in a few years' time.

It was early enough in the day – though neither man was quite sure _what_ time it was anymore, what with the lengthy visits to airport security (it turns out that certain kinds of lipgloss can look an awful lot like a switchblade on airport x-rays) followed by who knows how many time zone changes, followed by a prolonged visit to the baggage reclaim, which entailed much sobbing and holding of one another when it seemed like Vince's emergency bag and Howard's rucksack (which, it turned out, was one inch too large to conform to the airline's draconian carry-on bag policy) had been misdirected to who knows where, or shot out into space, or sucked into a parallel dimension made entirely out of those old cassette tapes featuring all kinds of greatest hits you don't remember or lesser albums by poodle rock bands you sometimes still see on sale for 99p at less fashionable petrol stations. But after an inexplicable delay, their bags arrived and they stumbled, sleepy and bewildered, into America.

Their hotel was simply named Hotel. and was housed in an unassuming brick building in a quietly buzzing neighbourhood. The front lobby was sparse and white, and the first minute or so of a Sonic Youth song seemed to be playing over and over on the speaker system. Two women – one blonde, one brunette, wearing matching blasé expressions – sat side-by-side at the reception desk, apparently not doing anything except decidedly paying as little attention to Howard and Vince as possible as the pair approached to check-in.

"Alright," smiled Vince, leaning his elbows on the counter. The two women looked up with much tired annoyance.

"What." they spoke in unison.

"We'd like to check in, please," said Howard.

"Name?" asked the blonde, staring him down with the sort of disdain typically reserved for paedophiles and tax auditors.

"I think it's under Ashcroft," offered Vince.

"Dan Ashcroft?" asked the brunette.

"Yeah, that's it," said Vince.

The two women wordlessly typed apparently random letters into their respective computers for about two and a half rotations of Teenage Riot.

"How many keys?" asked the blonde one, at long last.

"Four," replied Howard, adding "but would you mind leaving two of them here at the desk? We're expecting two more guests."

The blonde let out an exasperated sigh.

"Fine," she said, as the brunette handed Vince two key-cards. "You're in the Fuck Suite, twenty-third floor."

"The what?" stammered Howard, blushing like a greenhouse full of tomatoes.

The brunette sighed again. "_Somebody_ requested our most soundproof room? Have a nice orgy."

The two women went back to not working at anything but ignoring the two men, and the two men wandered off in search of the elevator. Howard paused a moment.

"Hang on, Vince," he said, turning back toward reception. "Excuse me, ladies?"

"WHAT." they said again, looking up from their busy nothing.

"I'll have you know that the soundproofing is because we're in a band, in case you were wondering," he explained. They weren't. "We'll be rehearsing in the room. We're called Dancing Banana Trees and we play at Shit Mountain in two days. You should come."

The two women looked at each other, scoffed, then looked back at Howard.

"Yeah, maybe," they said, rolling their eyes.

"Think that went well, then?" asked Vince, as Howard caught up with him. "Would it really have been that bad if they thought we were up there having orgies? Now they probably think you were some big pervert who wanted them to be our groupies."

"We are a self-contained band unit; we are our own groupies," said Howard.

Vince could do nothing but nod sagely at Howard's observation and employ all the restraint available to him to keep from bursting into uncontrollable laughter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: I own a cane named Pokey and a cornflakes Ritter Sport bar, but not any of these characters.

**A/N**: It's Chapter Three! MANY EXCITING THINGS HAPPEN. Yup.

The hotel the publishers had reserved for them was so pretentious it made Dan cringe, but he had to concede at least that the room was clean and bright.

"It looks like Ikea threw up in here," he said, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting up. "Is this a non-smoking suite?"

"Don't think so," said Jones, dropping his bags, toeing off his worn blue and gold trainers.

There were muffled voices coming from elsewhere in the suite, though Dan and Jones could not yet see them. Their traveling companions had arrived some hours earlier. Dan turned the corner into the suite to investigate.

And there he stood, slack-jawed and dumbfounded. There he saw two men in, he guessed, their early to mid-thirties, stripped down to their pants and vests, chucking what appeared to be satsumas at one another.

The long-haired man had just snuck up behind the man with the moustache and shoved a satsuma down the front of his pants, giggling like a mischievous schoolboy, when he realized that there were now other people in the room.

"Oh," he blushed, straightening himself up, "alright, mate."

They probably weren't Idiots at least, thought Dan. They were just... just _weird_.

"I'll just..." he started, then turned, and walked, averting his eyes, back into the vestibule. Jones was digging through his carry-on bag, in search of something.

"You seen my electric kazoo, Dan?" he asked, pulling out a scarf he appeared not to recognize.

"Hm? No," Dan replied distractedly. "Your, uhh, friends are already here."

"You can come back, we're in trousers now!" came a voice from within the suite.

Jones dragged his luggage into the room, with Dan following uncomfortably after.

"Alright boys," said Jones, hauling his bags into an unoccupied corner, then slumping into a minimalist blond wood chair with white cushions. "I take it you've met Dan?"

Vince recognised the DJ, Jones, from their previous meetings. The other man was a surly-looking fellow with a cigarette, whom Howard guessed to be about the same age as he and Vince, and Vince guessed to be somewhere in his fifties. You know, oldish. Who knows.

"Alright Dan," said Vince. "I'm Vince, this here's Howard."

Vince's introduction was punctuated with a grin that twinkled like 3563097890 megatons of glitter. Howard nodded cordially.

"Nice to, umm... you know, that flight was really... I'm going to go... sleep, or something," said Dan, shuffling off with his baggage into the unoccupied bedroom.

"Night fellas," shrugged Jones, following after his companion.

Howard and Vince were left facing each other in silence for a moment before Vince collapsed, doubled over, in laughter. Howard stiffened slightly, defensively crossing his arms.

"This isn't funny, Little Man," he said. "That was by far and away the worst first impression I've ever made."

"No it wasn't," giggled Vince. "How about when you met Mrs. Gideon for the first time? You stammered something about the reproductive cycle of the herring and then you fainted."

Howard felt a horrid blush coming on. "All right Vince, you win," he conceded.

"And then the first day of big school when you met our teacher, Mrs. Sorenson, and you – "

"That's... enough pleasant recollections for tonight, Vince," a very flustered Howard interrupted.

"You've still got a satsuma in your pants," said Vince, waving towards the fruit-shaped bulge in the front of Howard's tweed slacks. Howard blushed.

"Oh, I guess I should – "

"Wait, Howard," Vince cut him off, grabbing hold of Howard's wrist, his soft fingers tracing the delicate flesh there, before Howard could retrieve the object from his trousers. "Let me."

The light of jetlagged morning was too bright, too harsh, too loud. Howard rubbed his tiny eyes sleepily, padding into the main room of the suite. Jones was there, setting up his equipment; plugging things into other things, pushing buttons, untangling wires, hunting through cases of stuff.

"Morning," said Howard. "I'm surprised to see someone's awake before I am, actually."

"Haven't been to sleep yet," said Jones, the tip of his tongue peeking out slightly from the corner of his mouth in concentration as he worked.

"You should take better care of yourself, sir," said Howard, screwing his face up disapprovingly. "A good night's sleep is the foundation of a productive day."

"Nah," said Jones, "this time zone stuff fucks the circadian rhythms right up anyway, so I figured I'd ride it out until I hit my second wind, and get some setting up done while I'm at it."

"Oh I see," nodded Howard. "Once, Vince accidentally drank a possessed can of redbull that kept him awake for two weeks straight. By the end of the first week, he'd begun talking to invisible flamingoes and couldn't remember his own name. Even the most powerful sedatives couldn't knock him out."

"You should've rang me!" said Jones. "Anytime Dan can't sleep, I put together a little sleepytime mix for him, puts him right out, like a bottle of trazodone, turned up to eleven. Sleeps like a tuckered out kitten. It's well precious!"

Howard was palpably uncomfortable. "Yeah. So, how long have you two been, you know, gay together?"

"You mean lovers?" laughed Jones, smiling up from his equipment for the first time. "About five years, I guess."

Five years ago, thought Jones. Fuck, it had been five years since that gig in Mykonos. He still kept the polaroid of the two of them from that night with his turntable treasures. DJ Tiesto had taken it for them. His aim was a bit wonky and they were somewhat diagonal and out-of-focus, but Jones loved that photo. He had a huge shit-eating grin on his face, and his arm slung around Dan, who was actually genuinely smiling, in spite of himself.

"My most heartfelt congratulations to you, sir," said Howard, fishing a well-worn LP out of his carry-on bag.

"Cheers, mate," Jones smiled. "What record's that?"

"This," said Howard with great reverence, proudly brandishing the album, "is serious jazz fusion. This is the Mahavishnu Orchestra's extremely rare live album. Each member of the band plays a solo, all at once, each from a different song, over 4 LPs. You need a special Jazz Specialist Certificate to be allowed to purchase it. Sometimes I like to listen to it when I'm in need of an especially powerful morning jazz trance."

"Jazz trance?" asked Jones.

"Yes, jazz trance," said Howard, making profound jazz hand gestures and pulling a serious jazz face. "I try to have one every day. Care to join me?"

"Yeah, all right," said Jones, strapping on a pair of headphones. "Let's give it a go."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: I own a large triple-triple with hazelnut, but not these characters. Except I guess I technically own the ones that didn't actually appear in the Mighty Boosh or Nathan Barley, I guess. Whatever.

**A/N**: I'm wearing a parka.

If there was one thing that was universally true about hotel rooms, it was that in spite of the coffee maker graciously provided in the room, there was never enough coffee and its accoutrements provided to last even a fraction of one's stay. This necessitated that a handful of desperate coffee runs to the coffee shop across the road from the hotel be made each day. Thus, once all the members of their little expatriate household had awoken that first morning, the task fell to Dan and Jones to caffeinate themselves and their colleagues.

Dan fumbled with the shopping list that Vince had shoved into his shirt pocket, straining to decipher the handwriting.

"Right, umm, I'll have a large dark roast, one sugar, large earl grey with milk, extra large fat free caramel iced latte, extra whipped cream, and an extra large hazelnut red-eye on ice, please," said Dan.

"Twelve dollars," said the barista. Dan squinted into his wallet, handing her a wad of indecipherably almost identical bills and hoping it was enough.

"How come they never give you enough coffee in hotel rooms?" asked Jones. "They might as well not even bother."

"No idea," said Dan, attempting to negotiate the logistics of placing a plastic lid on a mountain of whipped cream without it spurting out in all directions.

Jones noticed a petite, red-haired woman (though her colour was clearly not one found in nature) who seemed to be eyeing Dan suspiciously.

"Dan, is there some reason why that bird's staring at us?" asked Jones, mildly concerned. "I think she fancies you."

Dan blanched. "Oh God."

"What oh God, Dan?" asked Jones.

"It's my ex. What the hell is she doing here?" he wondered, gripping his temples in confusion and fear.

"You have an ex?" asked Jones.

"_Yes_, thank you," grumbled Dan.

"I meant, you have an ex in New York?" elaborated Jones.

"Her name's Madeleine. We met when she was doing a year on exchange at Leeds, went out for a few months. Pretend you didn't see her," muttered Dan, under his breath, decidedly _not_ looking at the woman.

"Dean?" she shouted out, in bubbly surprise.

"I think you've been spotted, _Dean,_" said Jones.

"Dean Ashcroft! Fancy meeting you here!" smiled Madeleine, folding Dan into a mildly uncomfortable hug.

"It's Dan. Hi Madeleine," mumbled Dan.

"Dan, right. Sorry. Gah, it's been, like, forever, hasn't it?" she laughed.

"Since school, yeah," said Dan.

"Oh my God, how are you? What are you doing now?" she asked.

"Just... writing. Book comes out this week," he blushed.

"Oh! Congratulations! So you're still writing, that's great! I still remember those angry rambles you used to make me read at school. Guess you grew out of that, though," she said, punching him lightly on the arm.

"More or less," he said, seemingly retreating into himself, as though trying to make himself as small as possible in the hopes that she'd assume he'd imploded and leave without making any inquiries as to the scientific impossibility of such an event.

"So... you live here now, or...?"

"We're just here for a couple days," explained Dan. "Jones has a show, and then there's the book launch – "

"Oh, right, hi. Jones, is it? Madeleine," she said, extending a hand in Jones' direction. He accepted it, and they shook.

"Alright," he said, smiling.

"So, you two...?" she trailed off, vaguely hand-gesturing.

"Flatmates," said Dan, at the same time as Jones.

"Lovers," said Jones, at the same time as Dan.

"Uhh..." her gaze flickered between the two of them, as though trying to discern if one was being deadpan funny, or if one was being evasive.

"He's shy," said Jones, rolling his eyes.

"I know," she smiled. "So you're gay now. That's... yeah, I see it."

Dan squinted in annoyance.

"What the hell does that – "

But his thought was interrupted by the sound of some tinny, insipid pop song coming from her purse.

"Shit, there's my reminder. I gotta go pick up Tobias from daycare. It was really good seeing you again, Dan. Nice meeting you, John!" she shouted as she ran out the door, trying to flag down a taxi.

"It's Jones!" he shouted after her, but doubted that she heard.

It was awkward.

"I have to say I was skeptical at first, Vince, but that Jones has some very interesting theories about music," enthused Howard, tucking into his tea.

"Yeah, he's brilliant," said Vince, sipping his drink in that innocently seductive way he had of doing things.

"Before you got up, we spent ages talking about all kinds of things, after we jazz tranced," smiled Howard.

Vince's jaw dropped in horror. He scrambled to pick it up from the floor before the five-second rule could elapse.

"You jazz tranced? With _Jones_?" asked Vince, fuming.

"Of course I did, why not?" replied Howard. "It's nice to meet someone who can fully appreciate the bliss that comes from being smacked in the face with a wall of jazz fusion."

"Did you crimp with him too, then?" asked Vince, in a decidedly pouty tone of voice.

"Of course not," said Howard, scrutinizing Vince's pout. It was most definitely a Pout of Jealousy, he surmised. "Surely you're not jealous of Jones, are you?

"Should I be jealous? You two seem to be getting on so very well," accused Vince.

"What are you on about? This is stupid," said Howard.

"You're right, this is completely stupid," replied Vince, setting down his drink and standing with great determination. "I'm going shopping. With Dan. My new friend. Who I've got loads in common with and who thinks I'm great. Don't you, Dan?"

"What?" shouted Dan from the next room.

"We're going shopping!" shouted Vince in reply.

There was a long pause.

"Really?" came the reluctant response.

"Yes we are," Vince resolved, poking his head into Dan and Jones' room. "And it's going to be completely brilliant. You need a new outfit, Dan. We can't have you going to your own book launch dressed like a hobo rapist!"

Dan looked down at what he had on. It looked fine to him: the trainers were a bit worn, admittedly, but his jeans were clean and there weren't too many holes in his only slightly threadbare button-down shirt. And what's more, he had deliberately packed the white tee that didn't have any coffee stains on it.

"I don't see what's wrong with – "

"Hobo. Rapist. Dan," reiterated Vince. "_Not_ a good look. Come on, then."

Dan sighed. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. He tapped Jones on the shoulder, who jumped slightly, throwing off his headphones.

"Gah! What! Oh, hey Dan," he laughed, catching his breath.

"I'm going shopping, uhh... with Vince," said Dan. "You want to come?"

"Think I'm about to reach a major breakthrough on this song," said Jones, pointing to a collection of incomprehensible knobs and buttons next to his turntables. "Just be back before dinner, all right, babe?"

"Right," said Dan, giving Jones a small kiss on his way out the door.

"Dan and I are going now, _Howard_," Vince shouted from the doorway.

"Have fun!" Howard shouted after them.

And that was that. He hoped Vince would realize how silly it was to be jealous by the time they returned from a few hours of retail therapy. Howard certainly wasn't about to be jealous that Vince was spending the day, alone, with that admittedly ruggedly handsome Northern intellectual gayist friend of Jones'. No sir.

Except maybe he was, a little.

"All right Howard, I'm well caffeinated," announced Jones. "Did you bring the electric bassoon?"

"Right here," said Howard, brandishing a large instrument case.

"Let's get to work, then," said Jones.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer**: I may own a Pete Sweet Parka, but I don't actually own any of these characters. EXCEPT FOR TODD. TODD IS MINE.

**A/N**: The glorious illustrated edition of this chapter, which I recommend checking out if you like things like pictures what took me bloody ages to paint, is available here: .

Dan was visibly disturbed by the sight that met him when he and Vince exited the subway station into the busy street. Williamsburg, it seemed, was populated with emaciated, nineteen-year-old Nathan Barleys in downy moustaches and 1980s aerobics costumes – a particular brand of American Idiot. It was what would have happened if Ned Smanks and Rufus Onslatt had finally got together and made babies with each other.

"Ah, we really don't need to do this, Vince," said Dan. "Why don't I just, maybe, find someplace to have a coffee and you can meet me there when you're done?"

"You're going to have to be there to try outfits on, stupid," laughed Vince, leading them down a busy street.

Dan was more than a little awkward, thought Vince. Not just because of the cane; indeed, it seemed that he had become quite adept at understanding the logistics of negotiating his way through the world encumbered by an old injury and only ever having one hand free. Rather, it was as though he was still searching for where he belonged in the world, and at the same time fought – perhaps even raged – against belonging at all. It was a conflict that Vince supposed he'd probably live with forever. Or maybe he just hadn't found the right pair of confidence-boosting boots.

"Vince, aren't you just making me do this because you're mad at your boyfriend?" Dan stared flatly at Vince.

"No, of course I... am," admitted Vince, sheepishly.

"For fuck's sake. How long have you two been together?" asked Dan.

"You mean shagging? Couple of weeks. But it's always been me and Howard, ever since we were at school together, and I was the only boy who wasn't afraid of his moustache," replied Vince, with a wistful chuckle of nostalgia.

"Yeah, guess I can't really give you advice, I mean, we've basically just met. But yeah, it's... wacky? Sex... fucking... whatever. Changes everything, and it doesn't change anything. Complicates everything, and it really shouldn't. You can't just forget about it and carry on as normal because the definition of normal has changed. I know," said Dan, exhaling thick smoke in heavy curls that languorously billowed around him like a dirty halo. "Are you saying he's had that moustache since school?"

"I think he was born with it, to be honest," said Vince.

"That's kind of wrong." Dan stopped to stub out the end of his cigarette on a rubbish bin.

"Listen, you can't tell anyone this," whispered Vince, leaning in as close as possible before continuing, _sotto voce_, "but I actually think it's a bit sexy. Not just anyone could pull off such a bold look. I can't believe I just said that out loud."

He clasped a hand over his mouth nervously. Dan shrugged his shoulders.

"Do you even know where we're going, Vince?" he asked.

"Todd the Giraffe's," said Vince.

"A giraffe's?" asked Dan.

"Yeah, Todd," said Vince. "No signs on the door, you know, very exclusive place. You have to know the password to get in to shop. Mind you, the giraffe bit's something of a misnomer," he explained.

"Because there's no actual giraffes in there," nodded Dan.

"No, because he's only 75% giraffe. He's 25% human. And his teeth are made out of diamonds," explained Vince.

"Of course," said Dan. It was probably best not to question these things, really.

"See, once upon a time, Todd the Giraffe was the most popular of all the giraffes on the African savanna, on account of his teeth being made out of diamonds," said Vince. "Everyone loved him. It was brilliant! No one knows exactly how he came to be only 75% giraffe, though some say it has something to do with his granddad being a former cabinet minister. Whatever the reason, the other giraffes were furious at his deception, and demanded that he leave the savanna forever. All alone, he sailed to America to seek his fortune. Not long after he arrived, he discovered that he was really into designing clothes for people, and not long after that, people discovered that he was well genius at it. Now he's one of the most influential designers in the country."

"Vince, what, I don't even... that's pretentious bullshit," said Dan. "Giraffes don't design clothes. They don't even _wear_ clothes."

"You can ask him about it yourself if you don't believe me," dismissed Vince, rolling his eyes. "We're here."

"Massive!" shouted Jones, slumping back into an overstuffed white chair. "I think we were really onto something there."

"Indeed, sir. Adding that woodblock to the mix really brought something fresh to the whole experience," agreed Howard, punctuating his observations with large, artsy-fartsy hand gestures.

Jones and Howard had made great strides in that three-hour jam session. They had invented grating drones and bleeping bloops and big massive beats; it was the sound of ascending to a state of pure being, which would no doubt be even more transcendent when coupled with Vince's vocal acrobatics. It was now time for lunch.

"Lunchtime?" asked Jones.

"I'd say it's about that time," agreed Howard.

"More coffee, let's go!" said Jones, jumping up from his seat and bouncing to the door.

"Coffee's not lunch, Jones," observed Howard.

"Bit early for food though, don't you think?" asked Jones. "I don't normally have anything solid until at least my sixth cup of the day."

"That's why you're such a jumpy little hummingbird, my friend," replied Howard. "A jazz stallion such as myself needs to eat a solid meal thrice daily to maintain creative equilibrium."

"So... Israeli place across the road looks all right," shrugged Jones.

"Strong coffee and hummus," said Howard. "Let the refueling commence!"

It was early evening by the Vince dragged Dan, overburdened with shopping bags and looking a little worse for wear, back to the hotel suite. Their respective companions were both quite heavily involved in chasing soundshapes and inventing spontaneous tone poetry.

"Can you see that one, Howard?" asked Jones.

"I'd say this drone's rather a loud peacock blue," replied Howard, eyes shut tightly in intense concentration.

"This one's kind of an oblong shape, yeah?" shouted Jones, producing a loud, grating throb. "Oi, let's take a break, Howard! Looks like they're back."

The two men slowed and quieted their sound meanderings as the others entered the room.

"That. Was. _Beautiful_," beamed Vince, arms outstretched, laden with colourful bags.

"You like how the song's coming?" asked Jones.

"Pretty good, actually," enthused Vince. "Though I _meant_ the shopping... was beautiful."

"So, Dan didn't mind...?" Jones was suspicious.

"It wasn't that painful," handwaved Dan, handing Jones a small object. "Brought you something. Made me think of you, so... yeah."

"Aww, it's a little Chewbacca! It's perfect, Dan! It can go next to Seventies Lesbian Barbie and my lucky Gonk. There you are. Be nice to the new kid, guys," he said to his turntable menagerie, placing his new little friend down gently among them.

Howard just observed the others, arms crossed. He definitely wasn't jealous, no sir.

"I got you something too, Howard," said Vince quietly, blushing. "Dan had to help me inhale an entire packet of allergy pills just so I could go into the shop without going into jazz-induced anaphylaxis. It was well horrid. I'm still itchy, but I just... Happy New York, Howard."

Howard eyed Vince suspiciously as Vince rifled through his bags. What Vince retrieved was a flat, brown paper bag. He handed it to Howard. Howard was suspicious. Apart from (at long last) the bouncy castle incident, Vince didn't buy him stuff. He carefully opened the bag. It was a mint condition first pressing of _Blue Train_. He was speechless.

"You know, to replace the one I smashed," explained Vince.

Howard smiled a smile so gigantic that would have almost been creepy if it wasn't so endearing.

"Vince, that's incredibly thoughtful," said Howard, almost touching Vince's arm in response, then thinking better of it. Then recoiling in anger, realizing that this meant

"You smashed my copy of _Blue Train_?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Barley, and I don't own the Boosh, though strangely I own Dan Ashcroft's novel, for what it's worth.

**A/N**: Apparently the ff ate my linkage for last chapter. FAIL. If anybody wants to see the illustrations, PM me or summat. Took me ages to paint them, don't you know. As for this, it's a weird, short chapter. Enjoy!

Jones was rather used to talking Dan down. Though things were never so dire as that time Dan jumped out of a window and landed himself in hospital, there were still certain circumstances he sometimes found, let's say... triggering. Circumstances like, say, large parties full of the sorts of superficial bottom-feeders who liked to grow rich riding the creative coattails of people with talent (real or imagined), parties full of the sorts of idiots whose collective IQ tallied up to about Dan's shoe size, parties where such people would no doubt find ways to make Dan the reluctant centre of attention, always misinterpreting his disdain as being utterly fucking squeezebox, or whatever the fuck euphemism for cool they were using these days. Circumstances, therefore, like Dan's dreaded Book Launch Party.

Dan stood uncomfortably in a corner of the crowded room, clutching his tumbler of Scotch as though he were afraid it would float into the air and evaporate if he loosened his grip. His outfit was as brilliant as Vince had promised, but much more understated than anyone had given Vince credit for: black shoes, black trousers, grey shirt, and braces, which, Vince had told him, made him look proper intellectual. He still felt odd, regardless. Jones was with him, all smiles and support. Howard was trying to flag down one of those folks carrying about plates of hors d'oeuvres for another of those little crab cakes, and Vince was idly playing with a strand of his hair and searching for a reflective surface to check himself out in.

"Dan, it's going to be brilliant! They're going to love you!" smiled Jones.

"That's what I'm afraid of," said Dan, taking a long drag on his cigarette.

The four of them were joined by a dark-haired woman in a billowy red dress and earrings that were very nearly the same size as her head.

"Dan Ashcroft?" she asked, addressing Jones.

"I'm Jones, he's Dan Ashcroft," said Jones, pointing at Dan.

"Sorry," the woman blushed, "I guess you have a bit of that writery look about you."

"Me?" scoffed Jones.

"Him?" asked Dan.

"Actually, I've done a bit of writing myself," Howard spoke up, adding "maybe you might be interested in – "

"Oh. Umm, good for you. Dan, I'm Helen Torres, from the New York office obviously, we spoke on the phone a few times," she said. "So, in about five minutes, if you're cool with it, I'm thinking I'll introduce you, say a few words, then you can give us a little reading, say something, yadda yadda yadda, then drinks. Cool?"

"I guess," muttered Dan.

"Wicked. _Loved_ the book, by the way. I think you're going places, Mr. Ashcroft," she enthused.

"Thanks," said Dan.

"Right, umm, hi everyone," Helen said quietly into a small microphone that had been set up at one end of the room. "What can I say about Dan Ashcroft's new book? Dan Ashcroft's writing is like taking esctasy in reverse: he seeks to dig out the places where we disconnect, where everything is shit, and no one can communicate with anyone else. That's where Dan Ashcroft's writing lives. Dan Ashcroft's characters don't inhabit neat little arcs where things happen in deliberate sequence and then their story is resolved. Real life doesn't have story arcs either: things stop and start arbitrarily, time skips, we live one big run-on sentence that just sort of stops when we die. Aaaand on that note, here's Dan Ashcroft."

The room was filled with polite applause and subduded chatter. Dan reluctantly stepped in front of the microphone, holding a copy of his book.

"Umm, hello," he began, wincing at the screeching feedback that came from the microphone, before it was adjusted to acceptable levels. "I'm Dan Ashcroft, and this is my book. Which is the point of this party I guess, except maybe the free drinks. So, umm, I guess I'll read some of it.

"_Out of time, out of gas, then out of breath. Running on fumes, then running on empty. Running on pavement. Ben would be late for work again._

"_The tube station ticket machine wouldn't take bills, as usual. He would get a sandwich from Marks to make change, and catch the next train. He had planned to buy lunch that day anyway. Whatever. He stuffed the bill back into his wallet, just past a handful of probably expired coupons, a few of those Caffe Nero stamp cards he never remembered to use, and a sliver, a glimpse of something that had been in there so long that the edges had gone ragged and soft, so burned into him in such vivid detail that spying that ragged edge of it was enough._

"_It is a ghost, it is a memory, it is a photograph of long ago, of that trip to the seaside, when Benna was there with her skinny arms and her sundress, and it weighs against him and weighs him down: a necessary burden. He endures such things because the risk of what endurances may come without them is too great._

"_Like so many of the youths of his generation, he spent a year drinking his way across the continent, getting by on mangled French and even more mangled German (and not even attempting Czech, for fear of inciting an international incident), discovering along the way that drunks were the same no matter where you were, and that the main character from _Tropic of Cancer_ was truly an utter wankstain._

"_When she told him her name was Benna, sat on his squeaky hostel bed, he thought she was taking the piss. What, after all, were the odds that Ben would meet Benna? He smiled and told her it was as though they were destined to find each other. She coughed out a cloud of thick cigarette smoke and told him not to be so fucking sentimental."_

The audience either stared disaffectedly at him, or talked amongst themselves, oblivious to his presence, or seemed to have no idea what he was talking about. Maybe it was the English accent. It sometimes threw people off. He had forgot his subtitles at home, and the room was brimming with Idiots.

"Yep, that's my book... and I wrote it. Such as it is," mumbled Dan.

What was no doubt meant to appear as a smile on Dan's part came out looking something more like a terrified grimace. Jones looked on with quiet encouragement, cringing internally. Dan hated this sort of thing.

"Yeah, so, umm, thanks," he continued. "Fuck. Uhh, free drinks, go mental," he concluded, and proceeded to run from the stage area to hide in the bathroom.

At least the other attendees seemed happy to take him up on the offer of more free drinks. And that was that.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer**: If you're somehow labouring under the impression that I own any of these characters... uhh, yeah, no.

**A/N**: Excitement! Adventure! Drama! Romance! Angst! Lotsa larfs! Or possibly none of the above! Drinks? Yes, drinks. This chapter has drinks. I WIN.

Several drinks in, Jones had insisted on taking over for the party's (apparently deficient) DJ, and Howard had taken it upon himself to show the bartender how best to organize the bar's impressive collection of whiskeys in order from lightest (which he described as a Subdued Mudpuddle) to darkest (Self-Loathing Treacle). Dan and Vince were engaged in a conversation that Dan hoped seemed so fascinating that no-one would dare attempt to interrupt them, until such time as he was no longer contractually obligated to be present.

All of a sudden, however, Dan's expression sunk to a level of pain that was somehow even more pained than usual, a level that - in spite of his taken Dan _shopping_ - Vince had hitherto not witnessed. Vince wasn't sure what – or who – it was that Dan had seen.

"Alright, Dan? You look like you've just seen a nearsighted hobo that mistook you for his estranged wife and tried to rape you in back of a coach station in Portugal," said Vince, concerned.

"What? No, this is worse, trust me," muttered Dan, downing the last third of his beer in a single, desperate gulp.

"Dan fucking Ashcroft! Well fucking breezy to see you, you wankstain!" exclaimed Nathan fucking Barley, slapping Dan much too hard on his shoulder, very nearly leading him to lose his cane-compromised balance. Since last they saw each other (a considerable time ago, mercifully), Nathan had apparently grown a) a handlebar moustache that made him look like either a pro wrestler from the eighties, a paedophile, or both; and b) an embarrassing pair of sideburns that connected strangely to the ends of his handlebars, making his face look like an incorrectly-arranged jigsaw puzzle of hipster-irony failure; and c) about three or four extra mobile phone peripherals, arranged apparently at random on his person.

Dan grimaced. Vince smiled politely, adjusting his cape about his shoulders defensively.

"Still writing, yeah?" said Nathan.

"Uhh, yep... obviously. Still a self-abusing media whore?" asked Dan.

"This your new bird? What's your name, dollsnatch?" he flashed Vince a nauseating smile. Vince cocked a bemused eyebrow at him, followed by a look of mild disgust.

"This is _Vince_," said Dan. "He's one of Jones' bandmates."

"That DJ flatmate of yours? You two still bumming each other, then?" Nathan was grinning like an idiot.

"Yes," said Dan unflinchingly, and stared Nathan down for an uncomfortably long time. Nathan was visibly unnerved. Dan did a mental victory lap.

"Oh," said Nathan, smiling nervously.

"Was there something you wanted, or...?" asked Dan, having long lost patience with this exchange.

"Preach. Trashbat. Wants to make your book. Into a movie," said Nathan.

Dan laughed disdainfully. "You're full of shit," he said, pulling his cigarette pack from his pocket.

"No shit, Preach. I've got a team set up, the publishers are well keen. It is gonna be well Paraguay!" said Nathan.

"Nathan, have you read my book? There is nothing about _A Point of Light at an Impossible Distance_ that is remotely filmic," mumbled Dan, cigarette hanging between his lips as he lit up.

Just then, Jones could be heard over the music, shouting "Dan Ashcroft is the greatest literary voice of his generation!"

"Seriously, I read almost all of it on the plane, and it was a fucking riot!" enthused Nathan.

"You do know it's not a comedy, right?" sighed Dan. "I really don't think – "

"Did I mention that the publishers were well keen?" reiterated Nathan. There was no way, absolutely no way, that Dan was going to let his novel be turned into a piece of juvenile cinematic wank by Nathan fucking Barley, of all people. He would sooner go back to tossing off builders for a living, and that was saying something indeed.

"Actually," interjected Vince, "maybe they haven't got round to letting you know yet, but the publishers are looking to have Laser MacDonald do the film. Sorry, dollsnatch!"

"Laser MacDonald? Brain-damaged tosser from Edinburgh, with the short-term memory loss?" asked Nathan with a nervous laugh. He appeared visibly wounded by Vince's revelation.

"Completely," nodded Vince. "It's gonna be well genius."

"Yeah, fucking plastic," added Dan quietly through gritted teeth.

"Oh. Well, never mind, yeah? If, no, _when_ the MacDonald thing falls through, gimme a jingle, yeah? Keep it foolish, you glorious poofter!" said Nathan, disappearing back into the throng of idiots. Dan stuck his tongue out after him, flipping the two-fingered salute and pulling a la-dee-da face of epic mockery.

"Fuck, you saved my life, Vince. You have no idea how much I owe you. Thank you so much, I can't even... I... Vince, I could kiss you right now," said Dan, radiant with gratitude, hand on Vince's shoulder a little too long and too close. Vince blushed.

"Dan..." he began, raising a hand in gentle protest.

"But I won't," said Dan, turning away, staring sheepishly at his fancy-dress party shoes. "I'm not that drunk, or that stupid."

"It's all right," laughed Vince. "Everyone fancies me, Dan. It's my superpower!"

Dan squinted, shaking his head. "I'm getting another drink," he said, turning toward the bar.

Nathan fucking Barley, meanwhile, took this opportunity to ring Dan's sister Claire back in England. Given that England is five time zones ahead of New York City, Claire was not amused.

"Hello?" she said sleepily.

"Hey Claire babes," said Nathan. Claire could barely heard him over the sound of the crowd and the thump of the music.

"Nathan, is that you?" she asked, bewildered. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"I'm at your brother's book launch! They've got Laser fucking MacDonald on board to do the film, do you believe it? You know he's still with that DJ? I thought the whole gay thing was well out by now," said Nathan.

"Has it occurred to you that maybe they're just legitimately in love with each other?" asked Claire.

He thought very hard about that for a moment, before shaking his head in dismissal. She had him going there for a minute.

"Fuck off," he laughed.

"Ugh, whatever," she said, hanging up on him.

If Nathan had been just a little more perceptive, he would have been able to hear Claire rolling her eyes through the phone, but he wasn't.

Vince spied Howard making a nuisance of himself at the bar and decided it was time to get him back to the suite before things got out of hand.

"Howard," he beckoned, hopping up slightly to lean over the bar, "let's get out of here."

"Oh, hey Little Man," smiled Howard. "I'm just a little busy at the – "

"I really think we should get out of here," replied Vince, giving Howard the most sexually convincing look he could muster. It was the kind of look that made Howard blush until steam began to filter out of his ears like a sexual tea kettle.

"Oh I _see_," said Howard quietly, blushing from the very tippy-top of his woolly head to the ends of his sock-and-sandal-swathed toes. "Yes. Let's go, then."

"We'll see you back at the hotel, Dan," shouted Vince, as he and his companion made their way out of the room. "Good book, and all that!"

Some blocks down the road, between some numbered street and some other numbered street, it occurred to Vince that he had no idea where they were.

"Hey Howard, how's your keen sense of direction doing?" he asked, with no small measure of trepidation.

Howard stopped dead in his tracks. "Uhh, Vince, I was following you," he said.

"Oh for fuck's sake," facepalmed Vince. "What the hell do we do now?"

"Never fear, Little Man," Howard resolved, "I will use my fierce skills of deduction... and ask someone for directions."

The first person they encountered was a pigeon, who told Vince in no uncertain terms just where he could insert his could-you-show-us-the-way-to-the-nearest-subway-station. As if that wasn't bad enough, the next person they encountered was a harmless-looking granddad in a dusty old blue cardigan sat on the front steps of a modest brownstone. This couldn't possibly end well.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer**: I recycle my newspapers on a biweekly basis. I don't own Boosh or Barley, much as I sure wish I did.

**A/N**: For those of you just tuning in, here's a recap: Howard and Vince, on their way back from the book launch, get lost on the streets of New York City. They stop to ask a kindly old man for directions. HOW WILL THEY EXTRICATE THEMSELVES FROM THIS STICKY SITUATION?

"Out for a romantic evening stroll?" asked the old man as the pair approached him.

"Actually, we were wondering if you could direct us to the nearest subway station," said Howard.

"Sure, sure," said the elderly man, with a friendly twinkle in his eye. "But since you're here already, why don't you stop in for a Campari and orange juice, if you're not in a big hurry?"

"Well, sir, we've really go to be – "

"Now, now," interrupted the man, "you wouldn't begrudge a dying man a little company in his final hours, would you?"

"Howard," Vince whispered as forcefully as he could, glaring at Howard, giving him a look that all but screamed oh HELL no.

"Just one little drink?" asked the old man.

Howard's resolve crumbled like a fresh block of feta over a bowl of pasta salad. "One drink," he acquiesced, and the pair grudgingly followed the old man into his home.

The living room was dark, and lined with piles of old newspapers so high that the walls were completely obscured, and so old that they were coated in a thick patina of dust and old tobacco smoke. Vince made a note of coughing pointedly at strategic intervals in response. Crackly gospel music played quietly on a staticky old radio. Vince shifted a stack of papers from the plastic-covered floral sofa, trying in vain to touch them as little as possible, and the pair reluctantly sat down.

"So, tell me about yourselves," said the old man, pouring copious amounts of dusty red hooch into a trio of chipped coffee mugs featuring mismatched but equally quaint portraits of things like kittens, children with unusually large eyes, and no doubt highly poisonous mushrooms.

"Well sir, my name's Howard Moon, and this is Vince Noir," said Howard.

"Vince," repeated the old man. "That's a lovely name. A lovely name for a lovely lady."

"Uhh, hang on a minute," protested Vince, as the old man shoved a drink in his hand.

"You two must have traveled a long way to get to the big city," said the old man. "I don't suppose they have big cities over in Australia."

"We're English, actually," said Howard, choking on his bitter beverage.

"Would you like to see some of my religious art?" asked the old man.

"... sure?" ventured Howard.

The old man shuffled about for a time behind a stack of newspapers, muttering to himself.

"Howard," Vince whispered, nudging Howard very hard with his elbow. "I think we should get out of here now."

"Vince, that's impolite," scolded Howard, taking another sip of his drink, trying his darnedest not to gag on it.

"I think this guy's a vampire," whispered Vince. "I mean look at this place, he's got no mirrors up, for one thing. That's just not right."

"Honesty Vince, just because he isn't as vain as you are doesn't make him a vampire," retorted Howard.

"Fine. But that, and the velvet curtains? This place looks like it hasn't been cleaned in hundreds of years! And that Campari? It's NOT Campari. Trust me," glared Vince.

Howard choked on his drink. "Eugh, I've had four sips of it already!" he exclaimed.

Just then, the old man turned back to them, brandishing a sculpture, and he placed it gently atop a pile of newspapers which presumably hid a coffee table somewhere under them, and squeezed himself directly between Howard and Vince on the sofa.

"This one's a portrait of Saint Paul," he said proudly. It was all Howard and Vince could do to mask their distaste.

"No it isn't," said Howard. "It's a dead rat that's been nailed to an empty juice box, isn't it?"

"It's _symbolic_," corrected the old man. "Vince understands, don't you, dear?" he leaned in as he spoke, patting Vince on the knee. "My, this Campari just goes straight to my head," he continued, . "You know, if I may be so bold, and your husband doesn't object, I wonder if I might trouble you for a kiss? One last kiss from a beautiful lady, for a dying man."

Vince inched as far away as the sofa would allow at the old man advanced on him with surprising vigor for such a frail-looking creature, smiling menacingly, flashing an unusually sharp set of canines. Howard, fuming, took a deep breath, steeled himself, and proceeded to club the old man with his fists.

"Hands..."

BIFF

"...off..."

BAM

"...my..."

KER-POW

"...boyfriend!" he shouted. And that was that.

Howard lowered his fist slowly, out of breath, eyes wide (or at least as wide as Howard's teensy little eyes would go) with shock at his own sudden violent outburst. The old man sat, dazed, on the floor. Howard quickly grabbed Vince by the hand and the two booked it out of the building.

"You can find your own goddamn way to the subway station, then," the old man muttered after them. "_Boyfriend_?"

Howard and Vince walked briskly down the road, arms linked.

"Howard," Vince stared up at his companion, wide-eyed and positively giggling with adrenaline, "that was _amazing_."

"I beat up a defenseless old man, Vince," protested Howard.

"Came to my rescue, more like," countered Vince, as they descended a sticky set of stairs into the city's underbelly. "It was proper heroic. You didn't see his pointy teeth, all flashy! That man was dangerous!"

Howard puffed up a little taller. "He was, wasn't he?"

Vince nodded. The train doors swooshed open just as they arrived on the platform. They fell quickly into two empty seats in a mostly empty car. Their few fellow passengers were either passed-out drunk or quietly reading to themselves.

"Do you know who I am?" asked Howard. "I'm Howard Damage Moon, sir! I laugh in the face of danger! Ha! Ha!" he laughed maniacally.

"You?" scoffed Vince with raised eyebrow. "Laugh in the face of danger? One look at danger's profile and you crumble like a Weetabix."

"Oh yeah? Well what about the time I took down that vampire?" asked Howard.

"You mean that one time just now?" replied Vince.

"... yeah," said Howard, shuffling his feet.

"Yeah," admitted Vince, "that really was pretty amazing."

"Cheers Vince," smiled Howard.

Their eyes met, and they grinned conspiratorially, before spontaneously bursting into a crimp.

"Vampires, vampires, vampires, oh no!

Sucking out your lifeblood, like a human juice box,

dust them here, dust them there,

dusting in your underwear.

Polishing the cabinets, vacuuming the cobwebs,

spiders are all confused! Spiders are all confused!

Don't forget your spider monkey vaccination!"

Howard was never one to initiate first contact. Under normal circumstances, he would tense for a moment and have to resist the urge to flee before remembering that the person snuggling into him/kissing his neck/unbuttoning his trousers was Vince, and he liked Vince – he loved Vince – and he liked finding new and creative ways of tearing down physical boundaries with Vince very much. But under normal circumstances, he would wait for Vince to make the first move. Not so this time. This time, Howard, feeling even more confident than usual following his success in saving Vince from the strange old vampire and so moved by Vince's kind words, was going to be a man of romantic action. He reached an arm around Vince's shoulders, and left it there.

"Howard, you're going to have to undress me as soon as we're back in the room," whispered Vince, glancing about nervously.

"Umm, Vince?" Howard was confused.

"Look at these trousers, Howard," said Vince frantically, indicating his epic drainpipes. "These are the tightest trousers known to man. It took a team of specialists to get me into them. If the two of us get any more enthusiastic while I've got these on, these trousers will break my penis."

They were both thankful for being in an especially soundproof room that evening. At long last, Vince lay sprawled over their bed, face flushed and blissfully out of breath. He looked over at Howard, propped up on his elbows, a self-satisfied smile creeping onto his face.

"Wow," gasped Vince.

"You can say that again," said Howard.

"I can't believe it took us half an hour to get me out of those trousers," said Vince, rolling lazily onto his side, an exploratory hand sneaking beneath the waistband of Howard's pants.

"Maybe this will convince you that you don't need to wear such snug legwear, VinOHMYGOODNESS!" exclaimed Howard, scrambling to his feet.

Vince stared at him, hands on hips. "Settle down, will you? Look, I know this is still a bit of a mysterious new world for us, but if you'd stop panicking, you'd remember how much you _like_ having my hand in your pants."

"Just... Just a moment," said Howard, catching his breath. Deep breaths. Inhale, and exhale. Inhale, and exhale. There. Howard Moon, Man of Action, was not one to say no to such an exquisite example of glam-rock debauchery sprawled supine and firm of member on a soft, soundproof mattress. One more breath, and he leapt, like a large and uncoordinated gazelle, onto his lover.

By the time Dan and Jones arrived back at the suite, all that could be overheard was the gentle rumble of Howard's satiated snoring.


	9. Chapter 9

Shit Mountain was, it turned out, rather small and rather dark. The toilets were almost impossibly filthy and the floors were sticky with Pabst Blue Ribbons past. In other words, it was just the kind of place where the best shows tended to happen. They loved it to bits.

While Jones and Howard began to set up, Vince was in the washroom, applying some last-minute eyeliner before soundcheck. All of a sudden, in a flash of blinding light, a smallish man in faded black skinnies, an old Jesus and Mary Chain t-shirt, and a black pinstripe trilby, arranged at a playful angle atop his pokey ginger haircut, appeared before Vince.

"Alright mate," he said, which startled Vince, sending his eyeliner skipping a long smudge across his cheek.

"You scared the shit out of me! Who the hell are you? Are you some kind of bad dream?" he shouted, hands on hips in irritation.

"Do I look like a bad dream to you?" asked the gingery man.

"Actually, you look like a 32-year-old graphic designer from Newport," said Vince. "Who are you?"

"I'm the Spirit of Noise," replied the gingery man.

"You're sure you're not just a graphic designer? Because you really don't look like the spirit of anything other than maybe some innovative concert posters," Vince observed.

"I'll have you know I bloody am the Spirit of Noise, you cheeky fucker," protested the Spirit of Noise, with much irritation.

"Oh yeah? Prove it," said Vince.

The Spirit of Noise simply raised his hand, and the space between them was filled with a cacophony of beats, feedback, and grating tones so massive that they sent Vince flying clear across the room. The Spirit of Noise lowered his hand, and all fell silent once more.

"Ooh, feel the power of pure noise, coming at you like a space ship... of noise," he said.

"What the hell are you doing?" exclaimed Vince, checking his coiffure for critical injuries. "You could have completely fucked up my hair! Takes me bloody ages to get it to go like this, you know."

"It looks fine, for fuck's sake," said the Spirit of Noise. "Anyway. Vince Noir, I'm here to invite you to come with me on a journey through time and space, where you will – "

"Yeah that's great, but do we have to do this _right_ now?" asked Vince, with an apologetic smile. "Only I've got rather an important gig tonight and we're just about to soundcheck, so if I could maybe pencil you in for sometime next week?"

The Spirit of Noise rolled his eyes.

"Well. I _was_ going to send you on a vision quest down a long desert road where you would meet Marc Bolan, who would feed you curry and tell you all the secrets of the universe, but seeing as you haven't got time, I'll just endow you with the gift of noise and be on my way. Farewell, Vince Noir!" he said, fading into nothing. Vince, realizing his folly, was horrified.

"Wait! Come back!" he shouted, searching frantically under stalls and behind radiators for where the gingery man had gone. "I want glam rock visions!"

"You had your chance, you little tosser!" came the gingery man's echoing disembodied voice. And that was that.

"Gift of noise? I don't feel any different," Vince scoffed, giving his hair one last tousle before wandering back into the room. For a moment, he thought he could hear faint static emanating from someplace he couldn't quite identify. Must be the boys setting up, he thought.

Onstage, Howard was quietly plugging in his electric bassoon, his electric shoe, and his electric woodblock. Jones was bouncng, headphones on, backup headphones slung around his neck, draped with about a dozen cords and bits of equipment that hung off him like those impractical earrings that hung off of virtually every high school art teacher. Dan was curled up on a brown velvet sofa in a quiet corner of the stage, quietly napping.

"How's everything going, guys?" smiled Vince. There was that static again, though he still could not identify the source.

It was then that Howard and Jones stopped what they were doing, staring at Vince in wonderment. Dan, however, dozed on, oblivious to all else.

"What?" asked Vince, glancing confusedly around himself. "I know I look amazing, but you should be used to that by now."

Static, again.

"Vince, your energy, it's all different... It's positively electric," said Howard, awestruck.

"Oh, that'll be the gift," said Vince, nodding in sudden understanding. "This graphic designer bloke just endowed me with the gift of noise in the toilets. So it's working, then?"

Howard's eyes widened in amazement.

"You mean you were visited... by the Spirit of Noise?" he asked.

"Yeah, that was him," Vince nodded. "To be honest, I thought he was just some pervy ginger art school dropout. Thought I was gonna get roofied!"

"Spirit of Noise?" scoffed Jones. "What the hell have you two been smoking?" He lowered his voice slightly then, adding: "Is there any left?"

"Feels quite cool, actually," said Vince, static crackling. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" asked Jones.

It was an early show, and as such was meant to begin at ten, which inevitably meant they would be starting at half past eleven. A handful of young hipsters in oversized glasses and video-game jewelry began shuffling into the room at around nine, while the boys scarfed down an especially shitty fake-Chinese-food dinner from an especially shitty fake-Chinese-food restaurant across the road. They wished someone had warned them. Everything – the noodles, the egg fried rice, the spicy broccoli and beef – was swimming in safety orange grease the colour of Jones' safety orange shoelaces, and the crab Rangoon – which the menu proudly touted as HOUSE SPECIALTY! VERY GOOD YOU BUY! – tasted like it was made from a soggy shark's bottom.

But they all felt only mildly ill, all things considered, by the time the DJ at Shit Mountain faded out the only mildly lousy filler music he had been spinning and it was time to take the stage. Dan retired to his designated couch, and the others took up their microphones and instruments. Vince sparked like a firecracker, and ignited an avalanche of noise. He sang in dramatic swoops and giggles, transcending language, grinding and sighing, soaring and crashing like violent waves into a rocky shoreline.

Howard played shapes and colours, and Jones played tastes and textures; things that should not be sounds, but were. They sounded like universes being born, like planets colliding, like what cacophonous stellar phenomena would sound like, if there were sound in space. It was a night that ought to have gone down in history as one of the most legendary shows of all time: the kind of show that inspired a generation, the kind of show that revealed to all who attended a whole new level of consciousness, the kind of show that, in a week's time, five times as many people will have claimed to be in attendance than were actually present, just to say they'd been there. And it would have, if the audience had known at all what to make of it. One day, perhaps some of those hipsters would regale their kids with the story of the time they saw Dancing Banana Trees play Shit Mountain. But not this night. This night, the world was not ready for Dancing Banana Trees.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer**: I still really don't own them!

**A/N**: This is another chapter. Listen to Holy Fuck's most recent album. And see them live if they're ever in a city near you. IT WILL BLOW YOUR MIND.

The band finished their set, and were met with a combination of polite applause, an occasional cough or two, and disaffected mumbling, as the crowd stood, confused or indifferent, and sipped their conspicuously working-class beers. Jones bounced over to the couch, shaking Dan back into the world of the waking.

"Dan, it was amazing!" he enthused, draping his arms over Dan's shoulders, kissing him voraciously, as DJ Fillermusic faded some lousy, generic techno back in through the venue's speakers. Dan blushed.

"So... it went well?" he asked when Jones finally came up for air.

Vince and Howard seemed mildly less enthusiastic about things, smooshing in beside Dan and Jones on the couch, shoulders slumped, staring at their shoes (green suede with silver lightning bolts, and Birkenstocks – with socks, _again_ – respectively).

"That was a grotesquely spectacular failure!" moaned Vince, still crackling with residual static. "They probably would have started chucking vegetables if they weren't so confused. Gift of noise my arse."

"So much for taking America by storm," sighed Howard.

"What are you talking about?" asked Jones. "We were fucking transcendent, lads!"

"They hated us," said Howard.

"Nah, it just hasn't sunk in yet," smiled Jones. "In like three days, they'll love us! Dunno about anybody else, but I'm well keen for a dance!"

Jones stood, an almost devious glint in his eye, nodding expectantly at the other three men.

"Yeah, all right," shrugged Vince, standing.

One song transitioned to another, and Jones crossed his arms, screwing his face up in consternation.

"This set is powerful weak, though. I can't handle this," moaned Jones, pushing his way through the crowd in search of the DJ.

Whatever Jones shouted to the DJ had had some significant impact on the musical turn the room had taken. The manic, grating beats of a Holy Fuck song thrummed into his chest, propelling him forward on pure momentum as he returned to the others.

"Let's get our dance on, lads!" he beamed expectantly at his companions. Neither Howard nor Dan seemed particularly inclined to dance – Howard looked mildly uncomfortable, and Dan just kind of held up his cane and shrugged.

He didn't even really need the cane much anymore – it was just a dull ache in the one leg that he carried with him now, mostly when he was tired or on especially damp days – but he persisted in using it for the following reasons: a) there remained a chance that walking without it for any distance could exacerbate his old injuries; and b) Jones once said "You look well dignified with that cane, babe."

(Dan would never admit how much he liked it when Jones called him babe, but he did. A lot.)

For some reason, having a cane lent him an appearance of clout in meetings and interviews. Or maybe the appearance of disability made people take pity on him. Or maybe being crippled was in fashion, and by this time next week half the staff of Sugarape will have broken several limbs and be rolling around in flashy Japanese wheelchairs with their iPhones wired directly into their eyepatches. The iPatch. Dan laughed derisively at the notion.

Sometimes, it felt like having the cane made him a member of some exclusive little club, albeit a _sad_ exclusive little club, admittedly. He'd get knowing smiles and nods from other limping strangers; some even tried to stop and chat, asking about what was wrong with his leg, where he got his cane, and so forth.

It was creepy.

It wasn't exactly fun, the cane. It meant he only ever had one free hand, and he had pains in his other knee that he could never quite seem to yoga out. Not that he lasted more than a week or two in yoga, mind you; Jones, on the other hand, took to it quite readily, though Jones was admittedly much more naturally flexible.

This was something Dan knew well.

At least Jones was positively humming with dance energy. Jones was always up for a dance, if the music was decent. He grabbed Vince by the hand, and pulled him into the sea of people. Within an instant, they were swept away in the tide, and neither Howard nor Dan could see them among the pumping fists and myriad shapes being thrown around them. They swayed and floated together, jumping and jumping until their surroundings fell away and all that was left, beyond time, space, and thought, was them and the music. They had ascended to a state of pure being.

Until Jones accidentally brushed against Vince's arm. Crackle, static, buzz.

"What the hell was that?" he shouted.

"That's the noise!" replied Vince. "You heard that?"

"Felt it, more like," giggled Jones. "That's amazing!"

Vince had, it seemed, passed on his gift.

Vince and Jones emerged from the pulsating throng, arms linked, glowing.

"Dan, check this out," said Jones, running his hand over Dan's arm. Dan flinched.

"What the fuck just - "

Twitch. Crackle. Hum.

"Gift of noise," grinned Vince. "Pretty genius, yeah?"

"Have you gone all wacky?" twitched Dan, shaking his fingers in an attempt to convey crazy, but that looked more like perturbed jazzhands.

"Oh yeah, you slept through that bit before the show, didn't you babe?" nodded Jones, taking Dan by the hand and leading him off into the sunset. "See, Vince was visited by the Spirit of Noise in the toilets - I'll just show you where they were..."

Howard eyed Vince suspiciously.

"You don't suppose this gift is... permanent, do you?" he asked.

"I dunno, I didn't ask," said Vince, reaching out toward Howard, who leapt backwards, adopting a defensive stance.

"Don't touch me, sir!" he exclaimed. "That gift could be dangerous."

"Or it could turn you into a musical superhero," enthused Vince.

"But, we failed really, really horribly," said Howard.

"Oh yeah," nodded Vince. "Let's just... go get some sleep."

Without thinking, Howard patted Vince gently on the shoulder. Howard jumped slightly at the accompanying distortion that hummed through him.

"Did you hear that?" he asked, staring dreamily off into the distance as they exited the club.

"Yeah," smiled Vince. "Genius!"


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer**: I own my own lube. Definitely not Boosh, and definitely not Barley. So don't sue me for letting these characters live out their dreams!

**A/N**: I did warn you about the rating. I expect that everyone under a certain age reading this will promise me to read it with their eyes closed. Otherwise, read on, I guess.

Meanwhile, on the very same spot that the Spirit of Noise had first manifested himself to Vince some hours earlier, Dan Ashcroft found himself being mauled by an especially amorous Jones. Never mind the fact that the response to his book launch had been lukewarm at best, and that there had been conflicting reports as to the success of Dancing Banana Trees' gig such that he had no idea whether or not it had gone well. Never mind that this entire outing across the ocean had turned out as unsuccessfully as he ought to have predicted. Never mind that dodgy public toilets had a tendency to give him panic flashbacks, though the static, it seemed, was enough to block them out more effectively than his customary internal mantra of _don'tpanicdon'tpanicdon'tpanic_. Never mind all that because Jones was pawing at the burgeoning swell in the front of his jeans, and that, at that moment, was far more important than anything else.

Somewhere beyond the static, they could hear the thumps and bassline of the music pumping out of the club's speakers - Jones thought it might have been an MGMT song. The song was in 6/4 time, as far as Jones could tell. 6/4 time was one of Jones' favourite time signatures. While 4/4 was pretty much everyone's friend, and 3/4 was at once a bit stuck-up and at times overly sentimental, and 2/4 was hopelessly optimistic, 6/4 was a swaggering badass, teeming with sexual energy; a complicated fellow, to be sure, but not so cerebral as 5/4 or 9/8, who were almost wholly removed from the baser emotions. 6/4 time was the best time signature to fuck to.

All Dan knew was that he was coinciding with Jones again and again at a furious pace, and found himself being guided into the nearest unoccupied bathroom stall. Every beat felt like thunderbolts in his chest; every instance and point of contact sparked like the feeling of a nine-volt battery pressed to the tip of the tongue, turned up to eleven and shot through his entire body.

"Shit," Dan sighed, breaking away slightly.

"What, babe?" asked Jones, with heartbreaking concern.

"It's just," Dan screwed up his face with awkward sadness, " lube."

A grin the size of Park Slope spread across Jones' face.

"That's it?" he laughed. "I got us covered!"

Jones fumbled about in his pockets, producing a small tube of lubricant. How he fit anything at all in the pockets of jeans that impossibly snug, Dan had no idea. He smiled.

"Yeah," he nodded with a small chuckle. "But why do you have it here?"

"Always got to be prepared," shrugged Jones, nuzzling into Dan's scruffy neck. Dan smelled like cigarettes and afternoon nap.

Jones hugged the curve of Dan's lower back with one hand, hitching down his pants with the other as he descended. Dan's pants were dark grey. All his pants were dark grey.

Jones' pants were red and had little footballs printed on them.

Jones flicked his tongue against Dan; Dan's consciousness was obliterated. He threaded his hands loosely in Jones' haphazard, shaggy hair - now dyed in shades of red and blonde, though he had been through so many colours in his adult life that Dan wondered if he remembered what his natural colour was. Jones' hand curled round behind Dan, and in that gentle, almost shy way he had of doing things, found his way into him. Dan's breath hitched, buzzing.

"Just fuck me already, Jones," he gasped, short of breath.

Jones giggled, turning him roughly into the wall, nipping at the back of his neck.

"You sure?" he whispered.

"Fuck, yeah," replied Dan.

Paying no heed to the likelihood that they could be overheard by the other patrons of Shit Mountain's men's toilet, Dan growled with reckless abandon when Jones pushed into him, squeezing Dan gently as he did, and biting down hard where his neck met his shoulder.

Jones had the uncanny ability to speak to sound. Time signatures had personalities, tones had colours, frequencies had flavours he could taste as acutely as he could taste that first bite of kebab at five in the morning after a long night out. He felt the meanings in sound in ways most people, it turned out, could only guess at. And now, he felt the noise with all his senses simultaneously. He felt it all through Dan, and Dan felt it all too. They felt it times a million.

Jones held onto Dan like he was afraid of flying apart, of getting lost in the crackle and fuzz and not being able to find his way back. He held onto Dan, sneaking a hand up under the front of his shirt and splaying it across his warm chest, holding him there, feeling the movements of his ragged breathing and heartbeat; the other hand was stroking him in 6/4 time, stroking in time as he moved in Dan, as Dan's breath quickened and he whispered "ohfuckcomingcomingcoming," as he let out a little whimper that sounded like pure being, and spilled over Jones' chipped nail polish and collapsed into him slightly, until all Jones could hear sounded like those patterns that form on the back of your eyelids when you're dizzy or you've been rubbing your eyes too much, and then the patterns went supernova, and he loved Dan and Dan loved him and they loved the world, and he came.

Static, crackle, and then quiet.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer**: Look, I hope you'd have figured out by now that I don't own these characters or their respective television programmes. I mean yeah, I own the DVDs, but you know what I mean.

**A/N**: We're almost done! Except not. I know, I know, I said twelve chapters, but yeah. There's going to be a thirteenth. Sorry.

And so it came to pass, much to Howard's relief, much to Vince's disappointment, and much to the profound confusion of both Dan and Jones, that the gift of noise functioned in much the same manner as Cinderella's magical fancy-dress outfit, inasmuch as it expired at midnight. That is to say, it expired at 3 in the morning, as the Spirit of Noise had just got back from a wicked good Xiu Xiu show in Portland, where his girlfriend was at art school, and was still on Pacific time.

Check-out time in hotels was always unrealistically early. They may as well have not bothered attempting to sleep. Nonetheless, all members of the little household of temporary expats were awake, if not lucid, by ten, and ordered breakfast: coffee and croissant for Dan, coffee and coffee for Jones, substandard American tea and bran muffin for Howard, and Greek yogurt with honey and a banana for Vince. Whether Vince ate so many bananas because they were a rich source of potassium and other nutrients, or because he was secretly aware of the effect seeing him eat bananas had on Howard, Howard had no idea. Dan and Jones seemed not to notice, and Howard was thankful for that.

"So, gentlemen," he said, regaining his composure, "I've taken the liberty of preparing a six-hour lecture on the indigenous rocks and mosses of this region, and perhaps we could even get in a little field research if time permits?"

Vince looked up from his banana, peeking through his fringe at Howard.

"Oh Howard, no," he pleaded.

"We've... got to be at the airport at 1," Jones smiled sadly. Dan shuffled his feet.

"Howard, I am not spending out last day in New York City listening to you drone on about rocks," Vince rolled his eyes.

"Drone on? How dare you, sir," protested Howard, crossing his arms defensively.

"Umm, we should all probably, you know, check out," interjected Dan, feebly attempting to cut through the awkwardness.

There was nothing more uncomfortable than witnessing other people bickering. Nothing, except perhaps trying to alleviate the tension in the room. Howard crossed his arms and Vince pouted, as though they had become completely unaware that their two friends were still there, as bickering couples so often do. Dan shifted uncomfortably and glanced at Jones, who was bouncing slightly from one foot to the other, brow furrowed. Finally, he leapt into action.

"Stop!" he shouted, throwing his arms into the air and jumping between the two belligerent lovers. "You two are in love with each other, yeah?"

Howard and Vince blushed in unison.

"Yeah," they said.

"How about the art museum, then?" offered Jones. "Howard, it's educational. Vince, it has a gift shop. I'd say that satisfies everybody?"

"Yeah," they agreed.

"That's better," he beamed. "Can we all just hug now?"

Jones stuck his arms out, beckoning Howard and Vince into his embrace. "You too, Dan," he said. Dan reluctantly shuffled into the hug. Dan did not like group hugs. They were weird. He took the opportunity, however, to smell Jones' hair. Jones' hair smelled like ice cream. Howard, being squeamish about touching as many as one person at a time, was the first to wriggle out of the expatriate love-in, retrieving Vince's mobile phone from the desk. Jones followed suit shortly thereafter, returning his attentions to packing up his equipment, and Dan and Vince, after a few seconds passed and they realized that they were the only two still hugging, extricated themselves quietly, and proceeded to move to opposite ends of the room.

"Vince, I'm just ringing Naboo to let him know our travel itinerary," said Howard, mashing his powerful Northern fingers into the tiny telephone keypad. Several rings went by, then

click

"Nabootique, how Bollo help you today?" came the voice on the other end of the phone.

"Oh, hello Bollo, it's Howard," said Howard.

"Harold?" he replied.

"_Howard_," grumbled Howard.

"Harold and Vince not here. They dead," said Bollo.

"What!" squinted Howard, with a look of Icelandic incredulity. "I _am_ Howard, Bollo. Vince and I are flying back from New York today."

"Precious Vince not dead?" asked Bollo, a sudden timbre of hope in his voice.

"No, he's right here," said Howard, shaking his head. "Vince, say hello."

Howard handed the phone to Vince, who accepted it with mild confusion.

"All right, Bollo?" he said.

"Precious Vince!" exclaimed Bollo. There was some rustling and static on the other end of the line, before Naboo came on, decidedly unhappy.

"What the hell are you doing? You can't just take off and leave the shop unattended like that, you ball bags! I thought you were dead," he moaned.

"Naboo, we told you we needed to book a week off to go to New York. You pencilled it in on the kitchen calendar," explained Vince.

"Oh yeah," laughed Naboo, remembering. "Guess I better fire your replacement then."

"Replacement? Gave up on us a bit quickly, don't you think?" exclaimed Vince.

"Whatever. Oi, Leroy, you're fired! And evicted!" shouted Naboo, away from the phone. "Do you reckon Costa might hire you back?"

"It's all right Naboo," came Leroy's voice from elsewhere in the room, though Vince could barely hear him, "I told Sheila I needed to take a maternity leave. I'll just spend the rest of the year hiding out round my mum's."

"Nice one," said Naboo. There was some more shuffling and static, and then he was back, at full volume. "I fired Leroy, so you'd better be back tomorrow. But if you do actually die between now and then, I will have to fire you."

"But we'll be dead, so..." Vince was confused.

"Yeah," replied Naboo. "Later, Vince."

"See you, Naboo," said Vince as he disconnected, shaking his head.

The same two women as were there at check-in - one blonde, one brunette - were there at check-out, seemingly doing nothing.

The four travelers approached the counter, laden with bags (save for Dan, who had apparently only packed two outfits and a toothbrush). The two women ignored them all until about the sixth time that Howard cleared his throat, when they finally looked up from their monitors with much annoyance.

"What," they spoke in unison.

"We'd, uhh, like to check out," said Howard.

The women sighed, and began to type what looked to be pantomime gibberish into their computers.

"Don't suppose you caught our set at Shit Mountain last night?" asked Vince, all smiles, sliding their stack of key cards across the counter.

The brunette rolled her eyes. "Look," she said. "We know _some_ people think it's cool to be able to say - "

" - you liked a band before they were famous?" continued the blonde. "Well, Nintendo and I, we - "

" - only like bands before they even exist," the brunette concluded.

"But... what's the point?" replied Jones.

"You guys can go now," said the blonde, glaring at them.

"Thanks," mumbled the four, shuffling out of the lobby.

"Whatever," said the two women, resuming their busy nothing.

And so the four gentlemen stood outside of Hotel., while Dan and Jones awaited a taxi to take them to the airport.

"So," Howard began.

"Yep," said Dan.

"This was a really good week," said Jones, with a slightly melancholy smile.

"Yes sir, it was," agreed Howard.

"I'm going to miss you two," said Jones.

"Uhh, Jones?" said Dan.

"Yeah, babe?" replied Jones.

"We all live in the same city," Dan continued. "I mean, we could all go to a pub or something tomorrow. You don't have to miss anyone."

"I know that," he laughed quietly, "it's just... this was a really good week."

Jones hugged Vince, then Howard, and climbed into the back of the waiting taxi. Dan was about to follow suit, when Vince pulled him into a warm embrace.

"Can I tell you a secret?" he whispered into Dan's ear, careful to make sure the others did not notice.

"I... guess?" replied Dan.

Vince grinned, biting his lower lip slightly in that way he sometimes did when he was about to do something quite cheeky, and whispered to Dan.

"Shh, secret," Vince finished with a mischievous wink.

Dan could not help but smile. "Vince, you're incorrigible," he said.

"If that means proper genius, then yeah," nodded Vince. "We'll text you or something when we're back in London, yeah? And thanks."

Everyone said their awkward byes, and Vince and Howard looked on as the taxi sped off into the bustling city traffic.

"Well, I guess it's just you and me again, Little Man," observed Howard.

"Howard, it's always been you and me," observed Vince, as they ventured, arm in arm, out into the city.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer**: I highly doubt you've gone through thirteen chapters of this and could be under any misunderstanding with regard to whether or not I own Boosh or Barley.

**A/N**: Actual last chapter, actually this time. Much love to anybody who's still reading this! The restaurant is inspired by a place near where my brother lived in Park Slope that was, he tells me, utterly legendary.

Not only was the art museum educational and full of fascinating, glittering canvases, it was also just capitalist enough that the merchandise was extensive. Vince endured Howard's extensive prattlings-on with regard to this painting and that sculpture, albeit grudgingly. Howard endured Vince's whirlwind tour of the impressive gift shop, which he left with an impressive collection of mostly useless, but pretty, things. Afterwards, they retired to a tiny restaurant - one of those bizarre secrets Vince seemed to instinctively know about, as there was no sign above the door, and indeed, no door to speak of. It was as though they had passed through a gateway to a parallel dimension that served nothing but really, really good pizza.

"So, since we still have a few hours before we need to be at the gate," Howard began, taking a sip of his apple juice, "I thought we might - "

"Marry me."

Vince stared at Howard with a small smile.

"What did you say?" Howard was certain he had misheard.

"Marry me, Howard," repeated Vince.

"What did you do that for?" Howard was thoroughly weirded out. "I was going to ask you."

"Oh, really?" laughed Vince.

"I was going to take us up the Empire State Building, get down on one knee overlooking the city. Bought a ring and everything. And you just had to go and ruin it by getting it in first, didn't you?" asked Howard, perturbed.

"Aww, cheers Howard, that's so sweet! See, I thought I'd get it out of the way, and then I figured the building's got enough floors that we'd have time to celebrate with a cheeky shag in the lift," said Vince with an exaggerated wink, gesticulating lewdly with his pizza crust.

"Vince, that's unsafe. We don't know where that lift's been. It could be crawling with..." and he lowered his voice considerably before continuing, "social disease."

"Oh yeah? What happened to Howard Moon laughs in the face of danger?" asked Vince.

"There's danger, and then there's reckless lunacy, Little Man," replied Howard. "You don't want to catch an elevator disease. It's a well-known fact that elevator diseases are the most unpleasant of all the diseases you can catch in buildings. What if something happened to, you know, Little Vincey?"

"Point taken," conceded Vince. "Oi, what do you mean, Little Vincey? Impressively Large Vincey, I think you'll find."

"Point taken." Howard had a hand in his jacket pocket, carefully turning over and over the small object he had hidden there. "What are the odds that we'd both get the idea to propose on the same day?"

Vince facepalmed, cracking up.

"Howard, you daft penguin, I could hear you rehearsing your little speech this morning when you thought I was asleep," giggled Vince, taking hold of his companion's hand. "It got a bit long-winded, so I thought I'd do a bit of editing for you. Boom! Engagement."

"You... heard my speech, then?" Howard blushed.

"I might have tuned out after about an hour and a half," admitted Vince. "The itemized list of all known animals that mate for life was a bit much."

"But the best bit was right after that," moaned Howard. "You missed where I outlined the history of matrimonial traditions in Britain from the fourth century to the present day. You see, in Old English, the word for - "

"That's... all right, Howard," said Vince, grimacing slightly, patting him on the arm. "You haven't answered me yet, you know."

Howard raised an eyebrow.

"Since I did ask first," he elaborated. "You going to leave me hanging forever or what?"

"But... it was my idea," said Howard, puzzled. "And I'm the one with a ring in his pocket. You should be answering me."

"The fact that I'm asking is an answer, isn't it?" countered Vince. "Just say yes and give me the ring, you ridiculous jazz dinosaur."

"Right. Okay. Yep. Yes. Of course I will, Little Man," Howard nodded, blushing such an intense shade of crimson that it seemed to radiate from him like an electric tomato.

"Cheers, Howard," giggled Vince.

Howard pulled a small velvet box from his pocket, opening it to reveal a glitter-encrusted bauble so bright and shining and fabulous that it very nearly required the use of special sunglasses in order to look at it directly. Vince beamed even brighter.

"Genius," he smiled, as Howard slipped the ring onto his finger. "Everyone with taste is going to be well jealous. Too bad you don't really accessorize, or you could wear one too."

"I am wearing one, Vince," replied Howard, gazing off into the poetic distance, "on my heart."

"I think that might be dangerously constricting your blood flow," observed Vince. "What happened to safe fun?"

"It's a metaphor, you sad peacock," explained Howard.

"Whatever," said Vince, rolling his eyes. "So are we going to kiss or something, now we're engaged?"

"Oh, of course," grinned Howard, blushing. "Pucker up, love."

Howard leaned in, closing his eyes, when he felt a sudden and unpleasant squish beneath his elbow.

"Eugh, Howard, you turnip!" exclaimed Vince, "you've gone and got your elbow all over my pizza!"

Howard grinned. "Not to worry, Little Man, these stain-resistant elbow patches mean I'm prepared for just such an emergency as this," he said proudly, wiping off the last bits of spiced tomato with a napkin.

"Yeah, but I can't eat this now," Vince moaned. "Probably got jazz germs all up in it from that horrid tweed."

"Vince," said Howard, with an exasperated sigh, "if you're afraid of getting jazz germs from the _proud_ tweed of my traveling ensemble, shouldn't you be even more afraid of contracting jazz germs from me when we're... intimate?"

"That's different," handwaved Vince. "You're not unfashionable when you're all naked. Just... you know, sexy."

Vince put down the remainder of his crust, stopping to lick the crumbs from his thumb, in as deliberately seductive a manner as he could; drawing it in with the tip of his tongue, sucking it between his glossy pink lips. Howard blushed like 569879345987245987.8 square metres of cranberry fields, his composure weakening.

"So, you sure I can't change your mind about that shag in the lift?" asked Vince, fluttering his eyelashes.

"Social disease," stammered Howard.

"_You're_ a social disease," replied Vince. "Cheeky blowie in the airport toilets, then?"

"I'd rather not take our chances around airport security," said Howard. "They're pretty ruthless."

"Fine," shrugged Vince. "But let's just say that I can't be held responsible for anything my hand might get up to under your blanket on the airplane."

As the plane taxied round the runway, Jones fished a music magazine out of his bag, and began absentmindedly skimming through it.

"That band's shit... that band's shit... oh, Diskjokke, brilliant... that band's shit... that band's rubbish... hey, we met them at Shambhala... new album's shit..." he said quietly to himself as he flipped through the glossy pages.

"One day," said Dan.

"What?" asked Jones, looking up from a spread on Young Rival (on whom he was no doubt about to pass judgment as to whether or not they were rubbish).

"I've thought. About us having a kid. One day, you know, when we're ready," said Dan, shredding the edges of his packet of complimentary airplane pretzels and looking as though he really wished their flight wasn't nonsmoking.

Jones smiled, stilling Dan's restless hands with his own, lacing their fingers together. Dan nestled his head on Jones' shoulder, as Jones gingerly placed one earbud in Dan's ear and one earbud in his own ear, queuing up the seven-hour Transatlantic Flight Mix he'd prepared for them in anticipation of their homeward journey.


End file.
